Some Fantastic
by lookskindagreyout
Summary: There are a lot of things in life we will never do. And for those things, there are the weekend crisis' of the Fringe team. A series of pointless, yet entertaining, one-shots, that couldn't be any other place but here.
1. 1: Maternal Instinct

Don't you hate it when just _one_ headphone goes dead? I find that so agitating. But in the case of this fic, it seemed that while writing _The Amnesia Machine_ (namedrop!), the humorous side of my brain seemed to just quit. It was awful, really, but I'm sure that's happened to everyone, at some point or other. _Some Fantastic_ is a bunch of meaningless oneshots written with the intent to entertain and revive my own humor. So please, don't take them too terribly seriously, and just enjoy. ^ ^

_*Fringe was written to entertain, too. Only better, and not mine._

One: _Maternal Instinct_

She wasn't dead, and she hadn't grown a third eye. He guessed that all was well, as far as well went. As he did every morning, he felt slightly disappointed. But Walter decided to ask anyways.

"How are you feeling this morning, miss Astatine?" he asked politely, listening very intently to her response.

"Swing and a miss. I'm fine, Walter, how are you?" Astrid did not look up from her laptop screen as she continued to type away on her report.

"Good, good. Are you _certain_ you're well? You've experienced nothing out of the ordinary at all? No sort of illness, vertigo?"

"No," Astrid answered, looking up at him suspiciously, "What are you getting at, Walter?"

Walter looked thoughtful for a few moments, rubbing his chin with his fingertips, "Hmm. It's nothing, really," he turned away, then paused, "…Perhaps a superfluous appendage? Have you checked at all?"

"Walter, what did you do?!" Astrid cried, gaping at him in horror.

"Nothing, obviously. You're fine."

"You're asking if I've grown extra limbs!" Astrid shut the laptop, standing, "what did you do?!"

"I just wanted to see how you were doing, honest," Walter said with a smile, raising a hand to scratch the back of his neck, mumbling and trailing away "…and see if perhaps…the eggs had, um… haaaaatched…"

"Eggs?! What eggs?!" Astrid demanded shrilly, beginning to pat herself in search of growths.

"It doesn't matter, your fine. In fact, you're glowing!" Walter laughed uneasily, "Look at you. You go, or, um, whatever. By the by, _completely _unrelated, but… are you up for a blood test, today?"

"You're messing with me," Astrid said after a pause, "Ha ha, very funny." she dropped back down in her seat, glaring at the laptop screen as she opened it and reached for her coffee, and raised it to her lips.

She looked up at Walter, who watched her set down the cup, "What?" Astrid snapped, following his stare to the cup, "Oh Jesus- you put it in my _coffee_?!"

"I'm thinking the heat may have killed the poor things before you could ingest them. And the caffeine my have affected their systems."

"WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" Astrid cried, grabbing up the cup and rushing for the sink.

"You're not mad, are you?" Walter asked, following after her, "You would have made a wonderful mother, miss Asterixis!"

"I think I'm going to throw up!" Astrid said, covering her mouth and shutting her eyes to keep from getting sick.

"Morning sickness? That's wonderful news! They may be incubating despite my errors!" Walter exclaimed, excited.

"Will you shut up?!" Astrid said, "I am _not _pregnant, okay?!"

"It's alright, my dear," Walter assured her gently, patting her shoulders, "Being a mother is wonderful, once you get used to it. And I'm with you- we'll raise our abnormal children together. Provided I can find a way to extract them without… but don't you worry about that! You just sit yourself down and take it easy, alright?"

"Tell me you're kidding, Walter," Astrid croaked, her face ashen.

Walter dropped his gaze with a sigh, and looked back up at her with a small smile, "When do you want your shower? I would suggest soon, I don't know the exact incubation time. Cigars! I have to go out and get cigars…" he shuffled away, exclaiming to himself happily.

Astrid stabled herself against the steel rim of the sink, swooning.

xXx

"Hey, are you okay?" Peter asked the next morning, as he stopped Astrid in her routine with a hand on her shoulder, "You haven't been looking well."

"I'm fine," Astrid lied, "I just… I haven't felt myself, lately."

Peter looked into her face, concerned, "I never thought I'd say this, but… you might want to have Walter take a look at you."

"Peter, he's the _last_ one I want to deal with, right now," Astrid grumbled.

"He's the last person anyone wants to deal with," Peter agreed, "But, as I see your resentment has reached a substantially higher level, I have to ask- what's up?"

Astrid sighed, "Peter… you wouldn't happen to have seen Walter putting anything into my coffee, for the last few days, have you?"

Peter froze. He swallowed, "Excuse me for a second…" and he turned, headed into the office. Moments later, there was the sound of muffled yelling, and the sharp snap of a rolled magazine. Walter emerged from the office, nursing the bruise on his forehead and sneaking daggers back at his son, "apologize right now," Peter growled, tightening the _National Geographic _in his hands.

Walter sighed, rolling his eyes, "Fine. I'm sorry, miss Astilbe."

"Tell her _why_," Peter pressed, as Astrid only stared.

"I'm sorry I impregnated you without your prior consent or knowledge-" he yelped as Peter struck him across the back of the head swiftly, "Alright! It was only a _joke,_ okay?! I didn't infect you with parasitic organism eggs. I just thought it would be funny if you-"

"It wasn't funny," Peter reprimanded, "He's been doing it to all of us all week. He had me convinced that I had somehow gained him grandchildren from his bioengineered jelly beans. Sorry, Astrid."

"So… I'm not… pregnant, or anything?" Astrid questioned.

Peter glared at Walter, "No," Walter admitted grudgingly, "and I'm sorry I tried to fool you. I won't do it again, I promise." There was silence. Walter had to stop a giggle, "It was pretty funny though, wasn't it?" And Peter struck him on the shoulder.

Astrid had to laugh, completely lost.

Later, Peter spoke to his father lowly, "You've gone and fixed it, right?"

"I put the parasite's terminal drugs into her coffee this morning. She should feel a bit forgetful for the next few days, until it all passes from her system. You spoil everything, Peter."

xXx

END.


	2. 2: We're out of soap

Two: _We're out of soap_

Walter had been hacking away at the floor in the closet with a hatchet when he suddenly discovered a hole to the center of the universe. He could only conclude that it was a rift between the dimensions that he had accidentally created while he was 'renovating', and had sat back to examine it from a safe distance. "We had better keep this to ourselves," he had told himself, whom had only nodded.

As he sat, eating his lunch of tuna salad between two pop tarts garnished with jelly beans, Walter wondered if, somehow, the hole to the center of the universe had gotten _bigger._ He certainly hoped not- Peter wouldn't take too kindly to such a thing. And if it had gotten bigger, that may have meant that it was hungry. And the hole was now his responsibility, and his secret.

Walter went about gathering assorted things from the room to feed the hole to the center of the universe. He gathered loose change from Peter's discarded trousers, some paperclips, a hotel pen, the bible from the bottom of the drawer, a pair of his prized wool socks, and an empty soda can. One by one, he poked them into the hotel in the closet floor, watching them disappear in the dimensional rift. But still, as he sat back, he stared down at the hollowness, finding that it still did not seem appeased. He slipped off his left shoe and popped it in. Nothing.

Walter scratched his head, trying to think of what might please the hole to the center of the universe so he wouldn't get in trouble. At last, inspiration dawned across him, and he darted for the bathroom. He scooped up the three pink, shell-shaped bars of complementary soap from the dish near the bathtub, and ran back to the closet, kneeling to toss the collection of floral-smelling shapes into the abyss. He smiled.

It wasn't long before just a few bars of soap wouldn't do. The hole to the center of the universe was getting bigger, and Walter found himself growing progressively more concerned. Already the thing has robbed him of his kip spot in the closet, and now being hygienic was becoming increasingly difficult without the proper supplies at hand. The rift did not enjoy shampoo or lotion, which was a plus, because at least he had that.

Peter often asked questions that he ignored, about such things. He had attempted to explain about his missing shoe to no avail, so he had stopped trying. He only called down to the lobby, time and time again, asking for soap. One morning, when Peter was out, A bus boy had arrived with a tray of the soaps, as ordered, "No, this won't do," Walter told the lad seriously, "bring up a laundry cart full, would you?"

The bus boy took his tip and retreated for the order, bewildered.

It arrived in the next ten minutes, "Just leave it there, will you? It likes to be hand fed. Thanks very much," Walter tipped him again, and sent him on his way. The cart of soap, he assumed, would last him a while. It the meanwhile, he would have a bath.

But the hole to the center of the universe wasn't _stupid_. It knew about the soap, and Walter soon found himself shivering and dripping in his bathrobe as he shoveled the palm-sized cleansers into the hole. Soon, it had become used to having such an amount of what it wanted, and began to demand more.

Horror arrived one day, before Walter wanted a bath and Peter was out, "Sir," the desk clerk said apologetically, "I'm sorry, but we're out of soap."

Walter's mouth went dry with fear, "What? Are you serious? You're a hotel! You _must _have soap!"

"We can send up the complementary shampoo, sir-"

"It doesn't like the shampoo!" Walter cried, "don't you understand?! I need the soap, or I'll get in trouble!"

"Sir?"

"Never mind. I'm sorry to have troubled you," and Walter hung up the phone. He bit his lip, looking over at the closet. Surely missing _one_ feeding wouldn't be too bad.

The hotel manager arrived the next morning, and Peter answered the door, "Mr. Bishop?" the manager asked.

"Yes? Is there a problem?" Peter said.

"I'm afraid there is. It appears that a situation had been made of the room just below this one."

"Like what?"

"…Soap, sir. As odd as it sounds. It's knee deep, down there. And we have reason to believe that it may have been dropped down from the large hole in the ceiling. Our staff have reported repeated orderings of a substantial amount of soaps to this room," Peter and the manager looked over at Walter, who only continued to eat his Lucky Charms.

Peter moved to the closet and threw the door open, "Walter!" he exclaimed, horrified, "what the hell did you do?!"

"I'd stay away from there, Peter. It's dangerous." Walter was very relived that the hole was not, in fact, one to the center of the universe. He regretted that he had given up so much good soap, but…

"I am so sorry- listen, we'll pay for the repairs-" Peter started.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bishop. Here is your refund for the next three months. I regret to inform you that you are going to have to find a new hotel."

…Better safe than sorry.

xXx

END.


	3. 3: Present Absence

Three: _Present Absence_

"But it sounds reasonable to me, Dr. Bishop."

"I thought it did, too. I mean, you just can't go about _leaving _a hole to the center of the universe open. That's completely irresponsible. But, then, my son was never the responsible type," Walter chuckled. The Observer was always slightly impressed by the way Walter was not intimidated by his lack of emotion, "Perhaps he gets that from me."

"So it would seem. But personality characteristics are not genetic- how is this possible?" The Observer asked.

"It's a turn of phrase, Obi. I only meant that we're are alike in the trait," also, Walter Bishop did not become angry, with his questions, nor did he treat him like an idiot. The average individual appeared as one or the other, to the Observer.

The Observer quietly watched Walter eat a fry, and slowly turned his attention to the window of the booth, at the people passing on the street.

"What are you observing now?" Walter asked him with a smile, breaking his train of thought.

"It is only a force of habit, I fear," the Observer replied.

"And, of all things, you are certainly a creature of habit," Walter agreed, eyeing the empty plate before his hairless companion, which had, at one point, supported his regular order of a rare pastrami sandwich. Walter reached across the table for the ketchup. The Observer was already handing it to him, and he nodded, murmuring thanks, "But curiosity is not a thing of habit, Obi. That's another thing I really don't understand about you."

"You would say that I am an enigma, Dr. Bishop?" The Observer asked.

"And then some."

"But to me, you are just as strange."

"I understand that. And I understand why you watch everyone, just as I watch you now. Although perhaps with more question. But there is one thing alone about you that I have come to conclude; and that is that you are my friend." Walter smiled into his root beer float.

"How can you say that, when you know so little of me?" the Observer questioned.

Walter shrugged, "I think that's what I enjoy most about your company. We can _not _know each other just fine." Walter looked down at his wrist watch, "Ah. I'm very sorry, but my lunch seems to be over, and Peter only thinks I've gotten lost on campus again," He wiped his lips on his napkin, "I'll get this, by the way."

"Thank you, Dr. Bishop," the Observer said politely.

Walter waved off his gratitude, "The pleasure was mine, Obi. It was wonderful to see you. You must drop me a line the next time you're around."

"We will see each other soon enough, Dr. Bishop," the Observer replied emotionlessly.

"Oh. Well," Walter was stuffing his arms into the sleeves of his coat, and he paused as he reached into his pocket for his gloves, "I'd nearly forgotten. I was rummaging around in some of my old things in the lab storage, and thought you might like this," he drew out a white golf glove, "so I saved it for you." he beamed proudly, holding it out to him.

The Observer took the glove, arching a non-existent brow, "What is this, Dr. Bishop?"

"Always so full of questions. It's a gift, Obi. See you around," and Walter departed.

xXx

He must have been observing the foot traffic in and out of the subway for at least on hour that evening, before his thoughts returned to the soft leather glove folded neatly in the pocket of his overcoat. His fingers brushed it as he slid his hand across it, and he looked down at it as he pulled it out.

A gift? He'd never received a gift, before. What was the purpose of such a thing, this gift?

The Observer unfolded the glove, his fingers perusing the worn Velcro strap at the wrist. Slowly, he slid his hand inside. The glove fit well, to his surprise- were his and Dr. Bishops' hands the same size? He had always unconsciously expected Walter's hands to be bigger than his own, and had never thought to make the observation to prove otherwise. He would be sure to, next time. The Observer flexed his hand, and the worn leather gripped against itself to make a nearly mute creaking noise.

He concluded that he was finished watching the subway and turned away from it, moving back along the street. He did not think to remove the golf glove.

A man bumped him on the shoulder in passing, and stumbled a few steps to steady himself. Instinctively, the Observer reached out to grip the stranger to keep him from falling.

Suddenly, the man was gone. The Observer blinked. The man hadn't run off, he'd simply… stopped existing. He looked from side to side, as people passed, in search of the stranger, which seemed to have completely disappeared. The Observer turned in a circle, his bare brow drawing.

Impossible.

People were beginning to rush about, now, as a few rain drops battered the top of his shoulder. He watched them with wide eyes as they passed, completely unheeding of him. He raised his gloved hand away from his side just barely, his fingers brushing the flaring coat of a woman and she darted past in search of shelter, and she, too, disappeared. The Observer withdrew his hand into his sleeve immediately. He paced back up the sidewalk, making certain not to touch anyone in the process.

He took shelter under the outcrop of a paper stand, trying to slow his racing thoughts enough to think. Okay. So the glove he had received from Dr. Bishop somehow made people he touched inexplicably disappear into nothing. How?

The Observer looked at the glove closely, noting how the old creases were the brown color of the leather beneath and not the white surface texture. He examined it for writing of any kind, finding only the black 'Spalding' patch across the knuckles and nothing more.

The glove did not seem at all special. Surely Dr. Bishop had to know what it did before he had given it to him, he was not a stupid man. Why would he give up something so miraculous to _him_? Could it be because they were 'friends'?

The Observer reached out to touch the vendor on the shoulder, and he, too, disappeared. The Observer sighed in confusion. No one seemed to notice their disappearance. Were people that blind? Did they not watch things in the way that he did, to see and learn everything that they possibly could? The Observer reached up to touch himself on the chest, and nothing happened. He did not like these thoughts, thoughts of how others did not know when someone was watching them, how they seemed to be so self-absorbed. But not all people were the same, and the one that he had watched for so long…

xXx

"Ah, Obi! How are you?"

"Dr. Bishop, I've come to return your gift," The Observer said, oblivious to the icy rain that had drenched his clothes.

Walter smiled slightly, amused, "Do you not like it, Obi?" He slipped his hand into the pocket on his robe, leaning against the doorsill of their new hotel room.

"I know what it does, Dr. Bishop. And I realize what you were trying to show me," he held out the glove to him, folded in his palm, "Please, take it back."

"And what have we learned today, Obi?"

"I will continue to be invisible to the ones I observe, Dr. Bishop. But I will never stop watching them, it the hopes that, someday, they will come to notice me, just as you have." the Observer reached forward, purposely taking Walter's hand and placing the glove in it. He saw, now, that they were indeed similar in size.

"You'll have a great many friends, Obi," Walter murmured, "But you just might have to tell them something about yourself, so be careful. Not all of them are crazy enough not to mind, like me."

"Then perhaps you are the only friend I will have."

"What an awful thought."

"I must go, Dr. Bishop. Thank you, and goodnight," and the Observer hurried away.

"Today you learned about re-gifting!" Walter called after him, "That's what you learned!" And Walter laughed quietly.

xXx

END.


	4. 4: The hand that rocks the cradle

Four:_ The hand that rocks the cradle_

"_Cheer up, sleepy Gene_

_Oh, what can it mean to a _

_Daydream believer and a_

_Homecoming queen…?" _Walter sang to the cow quietly as he worked the toothbrush over her front teeth, pausing now and again to apply more toothpaste to the bristles.

Peter rolled his eyes, returning his attention to the newspaper in his lap. He had finished the crossword in a matter of moments, deciding not to waste the ink on filling in the small squares. Now, he read over each of the open apartment ads carefully. Would his father be considered a pet…?

Walter finished carefully taping the electrical relays to the small, bald spots he had shaved in Genes' thick fur, "There you are. Can't go about being a test subject with bad dental hygiene now, can you? Yes, you can thank me later. Provided I don't turn you into hamburger, which is always a possibility," he chuckled, dusting the knees of his slacks. He began to scurry about, bumping Peter now and again as he set to pulling on an extra sweater and his overcoat, followed by a hooded yellow raincoat.

Peter only pretended not to notice, flipping the folded periodical to read the opposing side. He waited, "Peter," Walter asked lightly at last, "could I perhaps have your assistance, for a few moments?"

"For what?" Peter asked flatly.

"I need you to hand me up the solar panels while I'm up on the roof," Walter answered.

"Walter, it's pouring outside. What do you expect to get, along the lines of solar power?" Peter looked up at his father levelly, "It's dangerous. Wait until this storm clears."

"But the weather lady said the storm could last all week!" Walter whined, "Come on, Peter! It'll only be a few moments!"

"No, Walter." Peter said finally.

Huffing, Walter retreated up the stairs to pout. Rain continued to batter at the high windows, and Peter reached for a highlighter, finding an ad of consideration. Time passed unheeded.

"Peter?" Olivia asked as she entered the lab, shaking the wet from her umbrella, "what is Walter doing on the roof, do you know?"

"Damn it!" Peter hissed, slamming down the pen and paper and climbing to his feet, "I knew it, I freaking knew it!" He grabbed his jacket, headed out.

"Get down from there, Walter!" Peter called up, annoyed at the rain creeping down his collar as he hunched his shoulders in the wind defensively, "get down right now! I _told_ you not to go up there!"

"Ah! Peter!" Walter called down happily, pushing his dripping hood from his eyes, "A 'green Gene' is only a few solar panels away! Isn't this exiting?!" He exclaimed as a gush of wind blew past, pelting him with sheets of icy rain. Thunder rumbled overhead, and his feet nearly slipped on the wet steel rungs. He laughed happily.

"Walter! You're going to get hurt!" Peter snapped, "GET DOWN!"

"This is the last one! The last one, I swear!" Walter insisted, biting the cables in his teeth and continuing his slow ascent, the large, reflective panel slung across his back.

"Walter!" Peter called again, his voice faltering in failure. He hissed through his teeth angrily, "crazy old bastard…" and he headed for the ladder.

Peter took a running jump, catching himself on the shed roof and pulling himself up. He splashed through the puddles on the cement roof as he jogged for the tubular fire route to the third-story roof.

Peter jumped as there was a boom overhead, and Walter let out a cry. His footing had slipped, and he dangled by one arm, the other gripping the solar panel that had slipped from his back, "Walter!" Peter cried. There was a flash of light, and Peter winced away as lightening struck to iron grid work, showering brilliantly colored sparks, "WALTER!"

When Peter arrived at the base of the ladder, his father was laying on his face in the rain, smoking and smelling of burnt raincoat, "Walter," Peter whispered, gently turning him over, "Walter, are you…?"

His father blinked, slightly dazed, "…woah," he said at last.

"Woah indeed, you idiot!" Peter exclaimed, slightly relived, "You have to be the luckiest bastard alive, Walter!"

"That's just what your mother said," Walter replied, plucking at the burned ends of his hair.

xXx

At first, they thought that perhaps Walter's arm was black because it had been burnt in the strike. But, as he did not feel any sort of discomfort from the thing, and his bones began to glow a strange greenish color through the dark flesh, Peter and Walter concluded that something may have been, in fact, terribly wrong.

"Walter!" Peter had snapped one night, "wake up!"

"Huh? What?" Walter asked groggily, rubbing his eyes tiredly, "What is it, son?"

"Cover your damn arm. It's been blinding me all night!"

Walter looked down at the appendage, glowing like a backlit x-ray in the dark, as the sleeve of his pajamas had slipped up to his elbow. Walter flexed his skeletal fingers, "Oh. Sorry," and he pulled his sleeve down, covering his arm to the wrist. There was a dull, greenish glow beneath the flannel print.

"We've really got to do something about that, Walter," Peter said.

"I've gone over this with you, Peter. It's only a freak chemical reaction, one that I was _trying_ to incite in Gene, to no avail. Like that cat on the news- have you seen it? Its name is Gene, too, isn't that something? But, anyways, it should wear off soon," Walter rolled over, burying his face into the pillow tiredly, "Now go back to sleep."

"'Freak' about nails it. But I can't take it anymore, Walter- it's so _gross_. The way I see you using it like a normal appendage…" Peter shuttered with a disgusted noise.

"It _is _a normal appendage. I just have x-ray superpowers, don't be jealous."

"You don't have superpowers! It's just nasty-looking and weird!" Peter cried.

"Daddy's tired. Go to sleep, Peter," unconsciously, Walter reached up with his glowing hand to pat his son's cheek, and Peter let out a yelp of horror, darting to the bathroom to wash his face. "It's not _koodies_, it's a harmless dose of naturally-occurring radiation! Don't be such a girl!" Walter called after him, and went back to sleep.

xXx

"I don't like it, I don't like it at all," Walter grumped, crossing his arms across his chest as he sat, pouting in the back seat of the Vista Cruiser.

"Walter, you haven't even _seen_ the place," Peter said reasonably, "can you just come up and take a look at it, before you dismiss it?"

"No," Walter said, glaring at the seat.

Peter sighed, "It's got a nice view. I took a look at it online- I swear to god, you'll like it."

"Why can't we live in Roswell? I lived in Area 51 many years ago- it was great, all but for the experimental aircraft going off night and day. I wanted to go the distance to White Sands, but Belly wouldn't have it, so we lived at Black Mesa. Or, I should say, _in_ Black Mesa. It was pretty nice, until that incident with the residence cascade…'theoretical physics' my _ass._"

"I'm pretty sure you shouldn't be telling me any of this. You wouldn't have seen any aliens, would you?" Peter laughed, half-joking.

Walter watched his son, seeming concerned, "Peter, there's no such _thing_ as aliens."

"Get outta the car, space man," Peter said, and his father grudgingly climbed out. They mounted the steps to the apartment complex, and, after an elevator ride to the top floor, Peter pushed up the lift door, smiling at Walter's look of awe, "here we are."

"Peter!" Walter exclaimed, overjoyed as he darted into the vast, empty loft, "It's HUGE!"

"I thought you'd like your space," Peter murmured.

"I want it, Peter! I want to live here!" Walter chirruped happily.

"Easy now, speed racer," Peter laughed, pulling the grated lift door down behind himself, "don't get your heart set. Let's have a look around first. It said that there's a few leaks and plumbing problem… and the heat is on the fritz…"

"We can fix it, we can fix it!" Walter insisted.

"Misters Bishop?" Someone asked, and a woman appeared, smiling as she opened the lift, "I'm Harley, I run the building. So, you're interested in the loft?" she shook Peter's hand.

"We'll take it!" Walter said, and Peter stilled him from shaking hands.

"The ad said that there were a few minor problems," Peter said reasonably, "We'd like a tour, if we could."

"Sure."

Walter had touched everything as they proceeded through the vast, empty room, "The last tenant used this as an art studio," Harley explained, "He never used the plumbing much, and didn't report the damages to maintenance until they were ridiculously extensive."

"Peter!" Walter said, "Look! An indoor puddle! All of my dreams are coming true!" His father knelt to touch the murky, cold water that had collected in the lowest spot on the tiled bathroom floor.

"Don't touch that, Walter. So, this place is going to need a bit of work, is that what you're telling me?"

"Absolutely. That's why I'm renting it as a loft, as it's not livable yet. But, if you could take on some of the damages yourself, I could discount your security deposit."

"Peter."

"by how much?"

"That depends on what you manage to fix. The plumbing is a big job, so at least two hundred, for that."

"Peter."

"What about the roof?"

"Another hundred, maybe. You can use the tools from maintenance, but you'd have to supply the materials yourself."

"Sounds like a bad deal. Hiring a handyman would at least be a thousand."

"Peter!"

"_What,_ Walter?!" Peter snapped.

Walter looked up from the floor, cowed, "Never mind."

"Get out from under the sink," Peter huffed, returning his attention to Harley.

"Um, I can't," Walter said, "I'm stuck."

"Yes, you can. You've got plenty of room, up."

"Not _me_, Peter," Walter said, his face gathering with worry, "It's my _arm_."

"What?!" Peter stooped, peering under the sink cabinetry. Behind the cobwebs and mold, Walter had pulled his sleeve up to his elbow, exposing his glowing arm. His hand seemed to have phased into the rusted sink pipe, and he was stuck at the wrist, "how the hell-?!"

"Is there a problem?" Harley asked, curious.

"Um, give us just a moment, would you?" Peter asked politely, before turning to whisper angrily at his father, "What the hell did you do?!"

"I told you, I have super powers. I was going to fix the plumbing and my hand got stuck when I was reaching through solid matter. Perhaps if we apply enough force, it will come free."

"Oh, because this kind of thing happens _all the time_," Peter snapped.

"More often than you would think. Grab my arm and give it a yank, would you?"

"No. I'm not touching that thing," Peter said, looking nauseous, "you pull it out."

"It's not a hair clog, it's my damn arm," Walter snapped, "and don't you think I'd have pulled it out myself, if I could? I need your help, Peter. We'll pull together, alright?"

"No. I told you I'm not touching it."

"Mister Bishop?" Harley asked, "Have you reached a decision?"

"Just one more minute!" Peter called over his shoulder, and turned back to Walter again, "Okay, but I'm not looking at it when I do it. Just pull with me, alright? Gawd, this is nasty…" and he grabbed his father's forearm, shuttering, as it felt just like skin and hair, despite glowing under his fingers. They pulled together, and his arm stayed fast.

"Stop twisting, that hurts! I'm not a turnip, boy!" Time and time again they tried, to no avail, "it's no good," Walter panted at last, slumping, "I'm just going to have to concentrate on passing it out of solid matter again. This could take some time, son."

"Mister Bishop," Harley said impatiently, "if you're not going to come to a decision, I've got another person that wants to have a look at this place. What'll it be?"

Peter looked over at Walter, then back at Harley, then back at Walter. He sighed, "I guess we'll take it," he grumbled.

"Great. I'll get the papers from the office, and we'll set this up," Harley smiled, and headed off for the elevator.

Walter was smiling as his son slumped on the floor beside him moodily, "Don't worry, we'll have this place ship-shape in no time. I'm happy with our purchase, boy," he beamed.

"Of course you're happy. You have a kinship with all damp, moldy things," Peter muttered bitterly.

xXx

END.


	5. 5: Run Home

Five: _Running Home._

I AM NOT AN AXE MURDERER.

"Walter, flip the damn sign over. It's not funny anymore."

FREE LOBOTOMIES.

"Did you even bring the right sign?!"

"Yes. What did I tell you about spoiling everything?"

"What did I tell you about being an idiot?" Peter leaned forward on his toes, gazing off down the empty corridor, wondering what in the world was going on. The flight wasn't late, he knew as he checked his watch; 3.17. The flight had arrived on time, at 3.15. Olivia had even joked that she would be the first one off the plane.

"I certainly look like an idiot holding a sign at three in the morning in an empty airport, just for you to impress your girlfriend."

"She isn't my girlfriend. Just stand there and _not _be a freak, for once in your life."

"She _could _be your girlfriend. Like in that song," Walter mused.

"Coffee, gentlemen?" someone offered, and they looked up at Astrid, who had arrived with a cardboard case of four Styrofoam cups.

"You're a saint," Peter murmured as he took a cup from her, inhaling the steam of the strong back coffee, "It feels like we've been waiting for hours."

"You're telling me," Walter grumbled as Astrid selected out his hot chocolate, handing it to him, "I could be sleeping, you know."

"Don't lie. You never sleep." Peter said.

"I _could_ have," Walter said, "But we'll just never know, will we?"

"How long ago did you leave to go and get coffee, Astrid?" Peter asked as Astrid leaned back against the handrail beside Walter, sipping her coffee.

"I don't know, twenty minutes ago? Olivia isn't here yet?" Astrid asked.

"No. The plane arrived at exactly three fifteen. I wonder what's keeping her?" Peter said, his brows furrowing as his gaze moved down the vacant corridor again. Walter was right- it seemed completely _empty_.

WITH STUPID.

Peter ignored the new sign as Astrid was laughing, and he turned to look over the hand railing at the entrance below. There were no car headlights flashing from the tall windows, and the sound of traffic seemed to have desisted. Alarm grew inescapably in his mind, and he look back over at the platform, "And it was the weirdest thing," Astrid was saying, "this place is like a bone yard. I only saw _one _person, on my way to and from."

Peter checked his watch. 3.17. "What the hell…?"

"Did you happen to spot the facilities, on your way?" Walter asked Astrid.

"Yeah. Just down- well, here, let me just take you, you'll get lost," Astrid set down her cup on the rail, motioning for Walter to follow her.

"Hold my sign, son."

DO NOT FEED.

Peter took no notice as Walter giggled and hurried away, and he doffed the cardboard plank into the seat beside him. Something was _wrong_. He looked away from the digital face of his watch and up at the large clock over the ticket terminal. He waited.

The second hand did not move. Peter blinked- no, that was impossible.

"Hey, Peter,' someone said, and he jumped as Olivia touched his shoulder, "Are you okay?"

"What? No. I mean, welcome back," he said, rubbing his forehead in confusion, "How was the flight?"

"Boring, as usual. Is it just you?" Olivia asked as Peter took her bags from her.

"No. Astrid's showing Walter where the bathroom is. Olivia, this is going to sound completely crazy, but… did you, um, pass anyone, on your way here?"

Olivia arched a brow "No, why? Is Walter lost again?"

"No. It's just… nothing, never mind. Got you a coffee," Peter said with a smile, pushing away his odd suspicions. Nothing that weird could happen on a Tuesday, he was certain.

xXx

Walter was struggling quietly with the zipper of his trousers, whispering curses as he tried to free the hem of his shirt from the teeth of the zipper, to no avail. He scanned the empty bathroom quickly and gave the shirt a hard yank, achieving nothing. He wiggled the zipper and tried again.

After several attempts, he delved into the inside pocket of his coat, retrieving a pair of forceps with and exclamation of epiphany. He carefully clipped it to the lower half of the zipper, gently but firmly twisting the shirt seam and tugging it. Thread by thread, it was coming free.

Walter looked up slowly as someone cleared their throat, and his ears suddenly grew warm, "Oh, hello."

September watched Walter without expression, and slowly tilted his head to the side in question. Walter chuckled uneasily, abashed, "Ahum, yes, this- my shirttail is stuck, and I- well, as you can see…"

September said nothing as he set his briefcase down, and strode up to Walter, seizing his shirt front. Walter exclaimed as he wrenched the shirt up in a quick motion, freeing it from the zipper of his trousers. September stepped back as Walter adjusted himself, looking grateful, "Thanks. Don't you just hate that?"

"It happens more often then you would think," September conceded unenthusiastically. They were silent as Walter tucked in his shirt and buckled his belt around his waist, and straitened with a sigh, "I'm sorry, did you need to pee?" Walter asked at last.

"No," September answered, "I've only come to ask you the time, as my watch appears to have broken."

"Really? Here, let me have a look," and Walter exclaimed with delight as September drew out a featureless silver pocket watch, "A pocket watch! I have a pocket watch, too! High five!"

"Please wash your hands," September replied, and Walter grinned awkwardly, going to the sink as instructed.

At last he flipped open the top of September's pocket watch, and frowned with concern, "Well, that's odd…" he delved into his own pocket to draw out a brass timepiece on a chain and open it. The two faces read the same- 3.17. "No, there doesn't seem to be a problem," Walter admitted, handing September back his watch, "perhaps you simply need to wind it- I always wind mine before bed-"

"There is a problem, Dr. Bishop. It has been three seventeen in the morning for nearly an hour. I am beginning to grow concerned." September stowed the pocket watch away in his jacket.

Walter arched a brow, "You're joshing. How odd… and exciting."

xXx

"Walter, who were you talking to, in there?" Astrid asked as he emerged, straitening his jacket around his shoulders.

"My friend," he answered with a smile, "but, really, there isn't time-or, perhaps there is. I have something exciting to tell Peter…"

"Like what?" Astrid said, arching a brow.

"Time is standing still! Isn't that amazing?"

Astrid frowned flatly, "What?"

Walter stooped to gather a stone from inside a plastic, potted plant, and fling it at the nearby window.

"Walter!" Astrid cried. The stone struck the glass… and bounced back at him, as if the window were constructed of rubber. He ducked narrowly to avoid the projectile.

"It's as I thought," Walter said, beaming, "time has stopped, therefore all matter stays in its halted form! How deliriously fun!"

Astrid stretched out her hand to touch the glass, and it felt cold and slick, "What the hell…?"

"There you guys are," Olivia exclaimed as she and Peter neared, drawing along a luggage trolley, "Your coffee… and _whatever, _was getting cold."

"It's an ingenious mixture of coca-cola and hot choco-latte," Walter said, taking his cup from Olivia to drink from it, "Peter can never mix it correctly."

"I leave the Frankendrinks to Astrid," Peter said, but Astrid was still staring at the window, "Astrid?" Peter asked, concerned, "are you okay?"

"Oh," Walter said, trying to tear off the plastic tab on his cup lid, "She's just worried because time appears to have stopped working."

"What?" Olivia questioned flatly. She glanced up, "Hey!" and she started forward.

Walter impeded her progress, stepping in front of September, who seemed to have appeared beside him, "He didn't do it!" Walter said defensively, "He's the one that showed me, in fact!" Walter set his jaw in a childlike defiance, "If you try to arrest my friend, agent Dunham, we will be at odds."

"I wasn't going to arrest him," Olivia said, frowning, "But he definitely knows something about what's going on."

"I do not," September said softly.

"See, he doesn't. Leave him alone," Walter pouted.

"Stop being a moron, Walter," Peter snapped.

"The window won't break," Astrid interrupted, and they looked at her. She drew out her sidearm, "see?" and fired a shot at the glass, making all of them, save September, jump with surprise and alarm.

Rather than bouncing back, as the stone had, the window seemed to absorb the force of the bullet, and the lead slug thudded softly on the carpet.

"What the hell?" Peter breathed.

"The explanation is simple," September said emotionlessly, "time has frozen. Mass will remain in an unchanged state until time resumes its normal flow."

"Whoa, hold on a second, how do you _know_?" Olivia said seriously.

"Our pocket watches have the same time!" Walter said.

"It has remained exactly three seventeen for nearly an hour," September replied, "I have a vague suspicion that you are the cause for this sudden lapse, agent Dunham."

Peter grew defensive, "Hey, she's got nothing to do with this," he growled.

"Not consciously, no," September said evenly, ignoring Peter's glare, "you are aware of certain things called layovers, correct?"

"Yeah. We didn't have any," Olivia responded, "In fact, I was a little surprised- I've never been on a flight that was ever _exactly_ on time."

"Your plane should have been laid over in Tampa for three hours," September said.

"How do you know?" Astrid asked, and September only fixed her with an empty, enigmatic stare.

"Why don't you?"

"We would have been here for three hours, Peter!" Walter said angrily, "Do you hear that?!"

"So time has a layover?" Peter said, unconvinced.

"In approximately two and one-quarter hours, time should resume as normal," September said. He added, after a pause, "…hopefully."

"Why hopefully? Don't you know?" Peter demanded.

"Don't disrespect the man, Peter," Walter snapped, irritated at his son's rude glaring, "His hypothesis is just as good as any I could have come up with, and time is never an exact science."

"What are we going to do, stuck here for two hours?" Astrid said.

Walter grinned slyly, "I want to play _baseball._"

xXx

The thin cloth straps strung between the plastic security posts for the line created a maze to first; the ticket booth. Then it was across the lobby to the center fountian for second, tag the strangely unfathomable piece of 'modern' art (Astrid surmised it may have been a bird, Walter insisted it was an anorexic turtle) on the plaza for third, and up the escalator for home. The diamond didn't exactly connect to itself, and really resembled more of a seven, but this fact was ignored.

There were no teams, as every man was out for themselves. Allegiances were formed, however, such as between Astrid and Olivia on the premise of beating the men, and Walter had attached himself to September. The gift shop had offered a selection of jerseys, which had nearly resulted in a massacre of Red Sox versus Yankees fans. September had only quietly suggested the multi-colored 'Boston' baseball tees to end the bloodshed.

Score was rarely kept, and calls were only selected on the basis of who said it first. Experiments had been made for the best kind of ball to be used, and they had settled on using a plastic snow globe, which seemed invisible, during the time lapse.

"That was so not a legal play!" Walter was gasping as he thrashed to the surface of the fountain, pointing at Olivia, who had tackled him during his brief sprint.

"That was _so_ legal!" Olivia laughed, striking her wet bangs from her face "I _am _the law!"

"You didn't even have the ball!" Walter exclaimed, "You were drowning me as _she_ threw it to you!" Walter pointed accusingly at Astrid, who trotted by to high-five Olivia.

"No dice, Walter, you're out," Peter grinned from first, "take a position and quit complaining!"

September only surveyed the situation silently, before lifting the bat from his shoulder as he tossed the snow globe into the air and reared back. With a sharp _crack_!, the 'ball' was whistling across the lobby. It rose it a great arc to clang against the second story light fixture.

"Homerun!" Walter yipped happily, squeezing out the front of his pink jersey, and he plucked a penny from his hair, "Do what I told you!"

September only set bat on the plate (a removed seat cushion) calmly, and straitened his tie under his oversized red baseball tee, "You can't touch this," he said evenly.

"Holy shit!" Peter exclaimed as Astrid bullet forward, having retrieved the ball (as captured balls were not, in fact, homeruns), "RUN!" and he narrowly escaped as she stretched the ball toward him.

"I've got you, boy!" Walter cried, starting forward. He slipped on the puddle he had created from his dripping clothes, stumbling to fall and skid on his chest into September, who tripped to land atop his friend with a short cry, "Sorry," Walter said apologetically as Astrid quickly tagged September as she sprinted past.

"Not a problem," September responded from his upside-down position on the floor.

"Good gawd, why are you so fast?!" Peter panted as he sped past the fountain in a mad dash for third. Olivia flanked him on the left, snatching the ball out of the air as Astrid tossed it to her. She vaulted a bench and flung the ball, and Peter exclaimed with pain as it struck him in the middle of the back, "Foul!" he laughed as he stumbled to a halt, "You have to tag me with the ball for an out, not _peg_ me with it!"

Olivia paused with a glance at Astrid, "…Really?"

"I think so," Astrid said, looking puzzled.

Olivia blinked, picking up the snow globe, "Oh. Okay." she touched it to his chest, then tossed it over his shoulder, "I'm up."

"No fair!" Peter cried.

"We're the dysfunctional team _ever_," Walter was smiling to September as he helped him up off the floor, "But we'll get 'em, you'll see."

Olivia cast the snow globe into the air and hit it with the bat as September checked his watch, his eyes widening. The snow globe rose to strike one of the light fixtures, and Olivia was about to announce another homerun when the fixture exploded with sparks, "Hey!" A security guard demanded over the rail, "What the hell are you doing?!"

"Crap!" Olivia hissed, dropping the bat.

"Go for the car!" Peter announced, and Walter called shotgun as the four of them split in different directions, as the security guard was radioing for backup.

"I have to admit," Olivia smiled as they drove along the freeway, dawn grey over the horizon, "That was probably the best layover ever."

xXx

_Today is gone. Today was fun._

_Tomorrow is another one._

_Every day,_

_From here to there,_

_ funny things are everywhere._

~Dr. Seuss

xXx


	6. 6: Submitted for your approval

_For Hans, who deploys in a few days. The best of luck to you, and please don't die.*weep* I'm a huge Hans fan!_

6: _Submitted for Your Approval_

"Hun? Hun. _Hun_."

Agent Charlie Francis' eyelids barely opened, only to shut tightly again as he grunted with response, willing himself to submerge deeper into the pillows. Sonia nudged his side gently, "Hun, there's someone at the door."

"What?" He blinked up at the red dials of the alarm clock; 4:43, "Who the hell…?"

"Charlie, would you get it?" she murmured tiredly, "please, hun?

"Yeah, yeah," he sighed, rubbing his face as the distant doorbell sounded again. He sat up and leaned over to kiss her cheek, "You're lucky you're pretty, you know that?"

Sonia smiled into the pillow, "Thank you. I'll do it next time, I promise."

"There won't be a next time, if I shoot them," Charlie said, climbing out of bed and heading for the door in his under shorts. His steps took him downstairs and through the dark, vacant living room, the wood floor of the entryway cold against his bare feet. He lifted the Ol' Slugger baseball bat away from the wall to hold it against the side of his leg. He placed the night chain into the slider on the door and twisted the lock open.

He opened the door open a crack to call out, "Who is it?"

"Oh!" came back a responding voice that was so out-of-place that Charlie suddenly wondered if he had imagined it, "top of the morning, agent Francis!"

Charlie craned his neck to peek through the crack in the door, "Dr. Bishop? What the hell are you doing at my house?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"_What are you doing at my house_?" Charlie articulated slowly and clearly, wondering if, as all the other times he had been in contact with the eccentric doctor, he were under the influence of some sort of drug.

Dr. Walter Bishop's smile faded from his face, his breath creating small puffs of fog a short distance from his lips, "Son of a bitch," he said, looking over his shoulder at the vacant street, "Peter swore this was a McDonalds, when he practically _jettisoned_ me from the vehicle…"

"Who is it?" came Sonia's distant call, and Walter's brows rose on his forehead.

"Your wife? I'll be she's lovely."

"No body, hun!" Charlie called over his shoulder.

"I'm what, now?"

"Listen, stay right here," Charlie said seriously, "I'll be right back. I am so killing Olivia for this…" Charlie shut the door in Walter's face and dropped the baseball bat onto the couch as he passed on his way up the stairs. Sonia blinked groggily awake as he drew out a pair of slacks from the dresser and began to get dressed, "What is it?" she questioned.

"Nothing. They need me down at work early, you know how it is," he grabbed his Blackberry off the night table and gave her another kiss on the cheek, "I'll be back when I can, alright?"

"Okay. I love you."

"'Love you too," and Charlie headed back downstairs. He dialed in Peter Bishops' cell phone number and held the Blackberry to his ear. Immediately, it went to voicemail.

"Hey, you've got Peter. I'm not answering right now, leave a message, 'kay? Oh, and if this Walter, _stop leaving messages on my damn phone._ Thanks."

_*beep.*_

"Peter, it's Charlie. You'd better come and get your father or _I will hunt you down_, I swear to god. I'm a cop, I can do that." Charlie touched the red key on his blackberry, ending the call. Next, he dialed Olivia.

"You've reached the phone of Agent Dunham, and I can't answer, right now, so please leave a message. Oh, and if this is Walter, _stop leaving messages on my phone._ Thank you."

_*beep.*_

"Olivia, it's Charlie. You'd better keep your boys on a leash. Does someone want to tell why I've got a mad scientist on my doorstep? If this is a joke, I'm not laughing. It's almost five, and somebody'd better do something about this. Bye." He ended the call, and sighed. Well, he'd better at least try Astrid…

"Hi, This is Agent Farnsworth's phone. My phone's probably off, so just leave a message, and I'll call you back. But if this is Walter… _please stop leaving messages on my phone. _It's weird, okay? Thanks!"

_*beep.*_

"Hey Astrid, it's Charlie. I know this isn't your problem, but Walter's at my house. He says Peter dumped him here or something… does this happen a lot? Call me back, if you know anything. Thanks."

Charlie slid the phone into his pocket with another sigh, and went to the front door, opening it, "Dr. Bishop-" he paused, finding himself addressing only the chill morning air, "…Dr. Bishop?"

"Charles! You're back!" Walter said, his head emerging from the hedge, leaves and twigs wedged in his hair, "I sought shelter, I didn't know how long you'd be gone."

"Get out of my begonia," Charlie said flatly.

"Begonia! You knew it was begonia! High-five for horticulture!"

"Whatever. Out." Charlie rolled his eyes as Walter emerged, brushing a spider from his lapel and beginning to pick at the debris in his hair, "Come on, get in the car. I'm taking you back to your hotel until we can get this nonsense sorted out." Charlie fished the keys from his pocket, pressing the bleeper for the alarm. The lights of his black, government-issue ford mustang blinked twice with a chirruping noise.

"Shotgun!" Walter cried, jumping the stone steps to the curb and scrambling into the off drivers' seat. He locked the door as Charlie neared, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Oh, boy…" Charlie sighed, running his hand over his face. He paused in his steps, wondering if he could somehow lock Walter in the car and go back inside… he shook his head, and got into the driver's seat.

"What kind of music do you listen to?" Walter asked as they pulled away from the curb.

"Just about everything. Why?"

"Just curious. Your interior is meticulous- I spilled soder on the seat of the Cruiser one time- it's smelled like stale Tab ever since…" Walter chuckled, shaking his head.

"Yeah, great, awesome. I'm going to drop you off at your hotel and head down to the station to find Olivia and your son- what? What?" Charlie questioned, as Walter was shaking his head.

"We don't live in a hotel anymore, they threw us out," Walter said with a smile, "Peter got us a loft, and the thing is monstrous-"

"Oh, yeah, 'forgot," Charlie said, "Okay, then where's you guy's apartment?"

Walter shrugged, "Dunno," he replied, beginning to rummage around in the glove compartment.

"Do you really not know, or are you just saying that because you're bored?" Charlie questioned.

Walter grinned at him, and returned to is task without offering an answer. Charlie sighed, "Fine. I'll take you down to the office, Peter can pick you up from there. Or Olivia, I don't give a damn."

"I'm hungry," Walter complained suddenly.

xXx

"Morning, Charlie!"

Charlie muttered something bitter in reply that Walter did not hear.

"Charles," Walter said seriously, "that woman at the desk just said good morning. The least you could do is extend the courtesy of a response."

Charlie stopped from his trek across the lobby to hang his head with a sigh, gathering his composure, "Good morning, Desiree," came his labored reply.

"That's good, Charles," Walter beamed, "You're a nice guy. He's a nice guy," Walter assured Desiree, who laughed quietly, "_I'm _a nice guy, too. My name is Walter Bishop-"

"Get in the elevator!" Charlie snapped, and Walter released Desiree's hand, hurrying to catch up, and the doors shut them into the compartment, and Charlie muttered under his breath, "The man eats like a boarhound and has the libido of Casanova on crack…"

"Alphamethylphenethylamine, actually," Walter murmured pleasantly, making Charlie jump.

They reached their desired floor, and the door had barely dinged open when Walter was off to the donuts and coffee. Charlie only shook his head, "I'm gonna die, aren't I? This guy's gonna kill me…" and he glumly shuffled off toward his desk.

He'd tried Peter's phone, Olivia's phone, and Astrid's phone all in succession, and all without response. He had the annoyed suspicion that they might actually be ignoring him, "Hey, Richard," he said to a coworker in passing, "I got a favor to ask."

"Oh, yeah? What's my incentive?" Richard said.

"Your incentive is me not throwing you out a damn window," Charlie growled.

Richard laughed, "What's got you in such a mood, eh?"

Charlie gripped Richard by the collar, "Do you see _that_?!" he hissed, indicating to the coffee machine where Walter stood, stacking the creamers into a tiny pyramid.

"The old guy?"

"Look again- don't you mean _the Devil_?!" Charlie said, releasing his friend, "He was on my doorstep at four this morning, I guess his son just dumped him there- and now he's somehow become _my problem_. A loud, drug-abusing, mentally delusional _problem_."

Richard considered, "Has he told you any weird scar stories, yet?"

Charlie glared, "I need you to give me a track on Olivia's cell phone. Now, I know it's against code or something, but I'm begging you, Richard…"

"Okay, okay. I'll hook it up to the triangulation software, and see what I can pull up."

A few minutes saw Charlie and Richard gathered around the monitoring equipment, as they got ready to trace, "It'll only be really direct if she answers," Richard was saying, "But I can get a general area sweep from her chip if you just call her…"

"How long would that take?"

"'Couple seconds, I'm pretty good."

"You were always a wonderful stalker, Rich," Charlie joked, as he dialed Olivia's cell phone and set his Blackberry to his ear, "come on, Olivia…"

"We've got an area," Richard said, drumming away on the computer keyboard, "Upper Boston. Pretty close to here…"

Charlie held up a hand to silence him as there was a soft clicking tone on the line, "Olivia?" he questioned breathlessly.

"Charles? Why are you calling me, I'm right here," Walter frowned, meeting Charlie's horrified gaze from across the room. He smiled, lifting the phone away from his ear and waving.

Charlie hung up the phone and uttered what may have been a sob.

xXx

"Get your arm back in the window."

"Okay," Walter replied, pushing his sleeve back down his forearm as he retracted his appendage, flexing his numbed fingers.

Charlie blinked, "Did you… roll up the window…?"

"Nope," Walter replied, raising his knuckles to tap the sealed glass with a smile.

"Then… how did you…?" Charlie shook his head, returning his eyes to the road ahead, "never mind, I don't care why you painted your arm black. I'm just going to get you back to Harvard until we can do… I don't know… _something_."

"We could take Gene for a walk!" Walter exclaimed, and frowned, "She's got to do something before she looses her figure, she's starting to look like such a heifer."

"I mean something as in finding your keepers," Charlie grumbled, glancing down at the glowing clock face on the dashboard, "It's only eight fifteen now. They dropped you off at around five, so they couldn't have gone too far. I've got a bulletin out at all of the local precincts for them, they can't go anywhere without being spotted."

"And the purpose of this diligent manhunt is…?" Walter questioned.

"Dr. Bishop, Olivia and your son are missing."

"Peter's gone missing?!" Walter cried, horrified.

"Oh. My. God." Charlie moaned, his forehead thudding onto the steering wheel.

"I knew it! It _was _ a hole to the center of the universe, and it _ate_ him! Charles, turn the car around, I know where Peter might be!" Walter had begun to glare piercingly at the cars passing them, as if his son could be in any one of them.

Charlie was about to tell the old man off, when he stopped himself. Walter might have been incoherent _most_ of the time, but there had to be some reason they were keeping him around. Grudgingly, Charlie flipped on the turn indicator, taking the off ramp, "Well hell, why not?"

xXx

"I'm sorry, sir, but you have been barred from the premises-" the hotel manager started as he approached Walter, his palm up in as gesture of restraint.

In turn, Charlie raised his badge, "He's with me," Charlie growled lowly, and the manager retracted slightly.

"Sorry, Detective."

They passed him without comment, and Walter looked awed as he followed after Charlie, "You're such a nice guy, Charles. Really. I'm a huge Francis fan, now."

"Do me a favor," Charlie told him as they entered the elevator, "_never say that again_."

The hotel room was under heavy maintenance when they entered, Walter muttering something about fond memories, and Charlie had a suspicion that the repairs were the older Bishop's fault. He did not ask as Walter went to the closet door and threw it open, a patchwork of planks nailed over what appeared to be a large hole punched in the floor, "No, no, no!" Walter cried, grabbing his hair in distress, "They can't board it up! It'll get mad!" He found a crowbar and set to prying up the floor.

"Walter-" Charlie warned.

"He's at it again!" the manager cried from his place at the door, "get security up here immediately!"

"Charles, I'm going in! Get as much soap up here as you can, and wait for my signal!" Walter announced, throwing off his coat, "and, if I don't come back… walk Gene for me!" he sat, swung his legs over the jagged edge of the chasm, and dropped down.

Charlie stood, staring in bewilderment. "Detective!" The manager demanded, "That man is destroying cooperate property! You have to stop him!"

Charlie laughed weakly.

There erupted a shrill, definitively female scream from the lower room, and Walter struggled his way out of the floor, clawing for a hold as he held a shoe in his back pocket, "Nope, I was wrong," he panted, dusting his clothes. He rose, getting his coat, "let's go, Charles."

Charlie was about to respond when his phone gave a chime, and he raised it to his ear, "Agent Francis," he answered in exasperation.

It was Richard, "Charlie. I think I may have got something, here."

"How? Bishop has her cell phone."

"No, not on Olivia's phone. A report just came in that a squad car spotted a car with a description matching the markings of vehicle you're looking for. I'm sending over what I can…hold on…"

"An old, ugly, station wagon hunk of junk?" Charlie questioned as a picture of the Bishop car arrived in a message.

"It's a family man car!" Walter said defensively as they made their way to the elevator, ignoring the flustered managers' protests.

"It's more rust than car, Dr. Bishop," Charlie said with a frown, "Anyways. Tell me where they snapped the picture, Rich."

There was a small pause, and Richard let out a laugh, "Right in front of your house, Charlie."

xXx

"Maybe Peter came to pick me up when he realized that your house wasn't a McDonalds," Walter offered.

"Yeah. And maybe I _won't _kick the living hell out of him for being a jackass," Charlie retorted, fuming as he merged sharply without signaling, "Yeah, screw you too, buddy!" he yelled at another driver, whom was blaring the horn in protest.

Walter sank down in the seat slightly, frightened of the hazardous traffic conditions, "You're a nice guy, Charles. You wouldn't do that."

Charlie muttered his bitterness under his breath and turned on the dispatch radio to listen to the chatter.

Walter leaned forward, turning it off and switching on the radio.

"DO YOU WANNA DIE?!" Charlie roared, and Walter recoiled in his seat, wide-eyed with fear. His lip began to tremble, and his eyes became glassy, "Hey- no- no, please, don't cry…Stop, I didn't mean it…"

"You're a nice guy, Charles," Walter whispered, withdrawing into himself, "I'm just trying to help…I thought music would calm you down…"

"You are helping, Walter, you are," Charlie said, sighing as he ran his fingers back through his dark hair, "I'm just- I'm a little stressed out. I'm sorry."

Walter sniffed, raising a sleeve to rub the damp from his eyes.

"Is… there anything I can do to make it up to you?" Charlie questioned after a silence.

Walter brightened considerably, "Chocolate milk?"

"Chocolate milk it is," Charlie smiled wryly, "Chocolate milk for the five-year-old old guy…"

A chocolate milk and three Fleetwood Mac songs (Thursday threesomes. Walter did not allow the sexual connotation to go unheeded.) later, Charlie was cautious as he inched the car around the street corner, his front door step just visible from his position in the alleyway.

"I see your car," Charlie said quietly, squinting through the hedge obstruction, "I don't think anyone is inside…"

"See? It's a family man car," Walter added smugly, and set to readjusting his rear view mirror, taking delight in the method of a tiny joystick being used to alter the reflection, "fun!"

"Leave that alone. No-wait!" Charlie tensed, "I see Peter!"

"Is he alright? Did he bring leftovers?" Walter asked, becoming caught up in Charlie's spying spirit as he scrambled for a better look, resting his elbow on the dashboard as he craned his neck for a better view.

"Get your feet out of the seat!" Charlie snapped.

"Is that your wife?" Walter questioned, and gave a small whistle, "She's _pretty_."

"What?!" Charlie shoved Walter aside, peering through the undergrowth, "What the hell…?!"

He watched as Peter and Sonia laughed silently, and the young Bishop offered her an arm of roses. Charlie could feel his pulse begin to tug at the back of his eyes, and a burning crept over his collar and up the back of his neck as Sonia looked delighted, giving Peter a kiss on the cheek, taking his hand and leading him inside. "Dr. Bishop?" Charlie questioned, his voice quiet and trembling with rage, "What is your son doing with my wife?"

Walter swallowed quietly, "I, um…"

Charlie kicked open his door and crashed his way through the hedge, and Walter scrambled out of the car after him, pleading, "Charles, need I remind you that you're a _nice guy_?! Th-think of the _begonia_, for the love!"

"I'll rip his arms off!" Charlie snarled, mounting the steps to the door.

"Charles, no!" Walter begged, tripping as he tried to follow. He raised a hand from his face-down position on the step, "Don't hurt him! Adultery runs in the family!"

Charlie ignored him, throwing the door open, "Bishop!" he roared, "Bishop, where the hell are you?! I swear to god I'll kill you, you son of a-" He blinked in the dark, his tongue stuck to the top of his mouth. Walter had managed his way up the steps, nearly running into Charlie as they stood in the doorway, completely bewildered, "What the hell…?"

The lights flashed on brilliantly, nearly blinding him with a deafening cry of "_Surprise_!" Charlie gaped stupidly at the spectacle before him as Walter gave a short scream, diving for cover behind a chair.

"Charlie?" Sonia questioned with a smile, approaching him, "Hun, are you okay?"

"What…" Charlie looked around, the smiling faces of his friends greeting him from their scattered places in his moderately decorated living room, "What's going on? Why are you all here?"

"Sorry we had to run you around like this," Olivia said, coming around from her place behind the sofa, "but we wanted all of this to be completely unexpected, so…"

"Walter was a distraction," Peter said with a smirk, "We knew he'd be more than enough to keep you occupied while we set all of this up. Congratulations, man."

"I was a _what_?!" Walter cried, peeking out from his place behind the recliner.

"Walter, you _volunteered, _remember?" Astrid said flatly, taking his elbow and pulling him to his feet.

"What is all of this?!" Charlie demanded.

"Charlie," Sonia murmured, leaning in to kiss his shocked mouth, "Surprise, Hun. I'm pregnant."

xXx

_Awww._

_~F_


	7. 7: Industrial Strength

7: _Industrial strength_

"You're full of beans."

"_You're_ full of beans! I did the equation nineteen times, and all of the answers were the same!" William Bell huffed, one hand on his hip, the other waving about a clipboard of charts and numbers.

"I don't care if you've done it a million times, it's wrong," Walter Bishop replied flatly, struggling with his fist-sized rubber band ball. The stretchy, tan ellipse broke, bouncing from the lens of his thick-framed glasses, and he flinched away, "there's no way the calibration can be that high, it would muss up the circuitry. I do hope you used a calculator to justify your mistake- I'd hate to think your brain was on the fritz." Walter selected another rubber band, ignoring its predecessors' disobedience.

"Calculator be damned, Bish! Maybe _your _circuitry is mussed up, didga ever think of that?!" William snapped, vexed at his friends airy responses.

"Stop _freaking out,_ Belly. Hand me the charts, I'll do it myself." Walter held out his hand, not looking up from his task, indicating that William should place the clipboard on his upraised palm.

" I DON'T WANT YOU TO DO IT!" William cried, "I want you to pull your head out of your--"

"IT'S NOT MY FAULT YOU'RE WRONG ALL THE TIME!" Walter retorted hotly.

"IT IS YOUR FAULT THAT YOU CONDECEND TO ME ALL THE TIME!" William roared.

"Give me the damn charts! Give them to me!" Walter rose, grabbing for the clipboard.

"No!" William said, holding them above his head.

Walter yanked on his friends' shirt, pulling on his upraised arm to rip the charts from his grasp. The papers tore into two fistfuls, "God damn it , Belly!" Walter exclaimed.

"It's _your_ fault! You ripped them!" William said, stooping to scoop up the paper shreds in his palms with Walter, as they spread them on the desktop.

"Get tape. Tape." Walter said, biting the inside of his cheek as he began to place the pieces together.

"I can't. We wasted it all making the über-tape-wad yesterday," William said glumly, pointing upward to the off-yellow mass of scotch tape affixed to one of the high roof ridges. He offered the stapler hopefully.

"Oh… yes, we did, didn't we? Well. A stapler won't work, we'll have to use glue." Walter had finished the first two pages of datum.

"No dice. We don't have any glue."

"Well, we're scientists- we'll make our own," Walter said, standing back to put his hands on his hips and blow air through his cheeks tiredly.

"I don't know, Bish. We've tried to make a lot of thinks for ourselves, and none of them turned out too terribly well," William admitted, finishing his own page, "I don't want to suffer poor Jimmy's fate."

"Please, refrain from your idiocy in the laboratory, Belly. There's no such thing as fate, and it's just glue- how hard can it be?" Walter scratched his chin, finding a few whiskers he had missed that morning.

xXx

"Stop huffing the ethyl cyanoacrylate!" Walter snapped.

"Sorry," William replied with a smile that was a bit too wide.

"Put it in, put it in, this stuff won't boil for long," Walter cracked the lid of the steel pot, acid-smelling, grey steam escaping. A thick, clearish substance was bubbling angrily within, and William raised the thin glass dropper, emptying it inside. They quickly shut the lid.

"Okay," William said, "now what?"

"I guess we just wait. We don't deal in the exact sciences, Belly. Besides, why would we make _standard _glue when we can make it _better_?"

"How better? In what way?"

"When we glue the pages together, the bond will be indestructible," Walter said smugly, "The mother of all glues, I assure you. A super glue, if you will."

"And how did you manage that?" William asked.

"A little extra this, a little extra that. Nothing much, just enough to make it the best damn glue _ever._"

"No- Bish, just what did you double? Because ethyl cyanoacdrylate is _explosive in high quantities._"

Walter's eyes widened.

The two scientists dove for cover behind the counter as the pot popped and exploded, sending burning fixative and shrapnel everywhere. After the danger had settled, they raised their heads, peeking over the countertop cautiously.

"I guess I forgot about that," Walter confessed airily, "but… did the glue work…?"

xXx

"I had this great idea, last night in the shower. What if we make something that tastes _just like butter_, only it's _not_? What if we create a low-fat, artificial substitute that-" William stopped as Walter was shaking his head, "-what? Why not?"

"No one would believe it."

"Would anyone believe that we're joined at the hip from a freak glue-making accident?" William said flatly, swaying his hips to jar his companion, whom exclaimed angrily.

"More than they would believe in a butter substitute," Walter answered, turning the page of his book. William frowned, and delved into the pocket of his jeans for a pack of red-topped Marlboros, "don't smoke around me," Walter warned without looking up.

"Why? You get to read."

"Reading won't make you smell funny or give you lung cancer," Walter said, turning another page.

"But smoking doesn't make you look like Poin Dexter," William replied. He lit the cigarette and paused, "Bish… there's something I want to try."

"We're low on hallucinogenics, Belly."

"No, no, not that. Here- you take this, I'll take this and these," William reached over, pulling the book from Walter's hands and his thick glasses from his face, as he poked the cigarette into his lips, "there. Try that out for a second."

"Ew- no, take it back," Walter said, removing the cigarette and grabbing for his book.

"Don't knock it 'till you rock it."

"…What?"

"Smoking is a social habit, Bish. No one smokes because they enjoy it, they smoke because it looks cool," William said smugly, trying on his companion's glasses, "It makes your image seem sexy and mysterious."

"Fine. But give me back my book, at least."

William handed _Theoretical Biogenetics_ back to his friend with a frown, "A sexy, mysterious Poin Dexter. Great."

A small group of female students passed, pausing a few moments to look at the non-committal physics professor, before hurrying away with hushed, excited whispers. William frowned flatly, plucking out the cigarette and throwing Walter back his glasses, "You're right. Smoking is stupid."

"I think I've figured out a way to solve this sticky situation," Walter said, pushing his glasses back onto his nose and snapping the book shut.

"Firstly, don't call it sticky. Secondly, what do you have in mind?"

"Well, if what we've created is in fact a super adhesive, it means that no irreversible damage has been done. We're only being held in place by electrovalent bonding."

"Your point being?"

"Well, if we made glue… who's to say we simply can't create a remover?"

"And if that doesn't work?"

"We move to more physical means of separation. A justly-named pry bar."

xXx

"The problem with the remover is that it, as well, must be as amazing as the glue," Walter said, flipping the switch on the centrifuge he had managed to purchase black-market from his old chemistry instructor from junior college.

"Amazing? Is that what you call this?" William snapped, vexed.

"I have to take some pride in my work, Belly, even the mistakes," Walter replied apologetically, "After a few more tests, we should be about ready to begin making the remover."

"After this is all done, I'm not touching you for a week," William grumbled.

"The feeling is mutual."

"'You know what we need?" William questioned as they made the effort to turn around, Walter removing a dropper of chemicals from a chilled container. He pushed his goggles onto his face and sprinkled a few drops onto a clear, dried mass of the glue situated on a spare Petri dish, "we need a cute secretary or something, to keep us out of trouble."

"You can't be replaced, Belly," Walter smiled fondly.

"Really? You mean it? You're not just saying that because I'm your artificial Siamese twin?"

"…Well, she'd have to be _really_ cute." Walter observed closely as the clear polymer began to separate from itself, "That's it! It works!"

They moved for a high-five, and decided against it.

xXx

William had set to tossing a pencil at the über-tape-wad on the ceiling in his boredom as Walter was finishing up his chicken salad sandwich over his observation notes, munching away quietly. The ticking of the clock over the door was surprisingly audible in the silence as Walter frowned at a bit of celery that landed on his pages and William's jettisoned pencil became affixed to the tape ball.

Both issued a simultaneous sigh.

There was a knock at the door, and William got to his feet, stretching, "I'll get it. A wayward, woebegone student, I'm guessing," and Walter grunted in response. William shuffled to the door, yawning as he opened it.

It was not, however, a lean-faced freshman, but a tall man in a dark, expensive suit, "Dr. Bishop?" he offered his hand.

Bewildered, William shook his head, "Bish!" he called over his shoulder, "You've got… a visitor!" he quickly added, as Walter was getting to his feet, brushing crumbs from his tie, "he looks _important_!" and Walter quickly set to tucking in his shirt.

"Yes, hello, I'm Dr. Bishop," Walter said formally, shaking the strangers' offered palm, "how can I help you?"

"My name it Johnson. It's on the matter of your glue solution, Dr. Bishop," Walter stepped aside to allow him to enter, hat in hand, "From your offer, my company is very interested in buying it."

"You are?!" William stammered.

"Yes," Johnson smiled, "from what you've reported on it, it seems a worthy investment, for Johnson and Johnson. I'm more than prepared to make you an offer."

"Oh. Wow," Walter said, scratching the back of his neck, "That's… well, that's wonderful. I mean, I'll have to call our lawyer, he can get into the details, but I'm very pleased you've taken an interest."

"Hey, Mr. Johnson," William asked as Johnson was looking around at the lab, seeming slightly alarmed at the tape globe on the ceiling, now an angry ball of sharpened pencils, "you know marketing, don't you?"

"For the most part."

"What do you think the going-rate on a butter substitute would be?"

"Don't badger the man, Belly," Walter snapped, then turned a pleasant smile to Johnson, "won't you have a seat? I have to make a call, and we'll get things started-" he followed Johnson's eyes to the centrifuge.

"Are you a chemist, Dr. Bishop?" he questioned.

"Ah, no. I'm only a lowly physicist, I fear," Walter laughed uneasily.

"I can't help but notice that a great deal of your equipment requires permits only obtainable by a registered chemistry doctorate. Are you perhaps a chemist, Mr. Bell?"

"Nah, I'm just a senior," William snorted, and Walter elbowed him sharply.

Johnson considered a few moments, "I see. And was any of this equipment used in the manufacture of your supposed 'super glue'?"

William and Walter looked at each other, "begging and crying?" William questioned.

"Begging and crying," Walter nodded.

Johnson stepped back in alarm as they fell in wailing heaps at his feet.

"Please, mister! I _can't _go back to ASB! Don't close the lab!"

"Don't take my centrifuge! I love my centrifuge! It has a name! Kelly and I have a _life_ together!"

"Extracurricular activities are the worst! Do you know what the football team would _do _to me?!"

"We were going to move to the country, and I was going to build a bunch of baby centrifuges!"

"I think we can make a deal," Johnson said at last.

A few hours later, Walter was bitterly finishing up the stale crust of his sandwich, and William had run out of pencils to throw at the dangerous-looking obstacle on the ceiling. Even the clock had lost the zeal in it's ticking.

Both issued a simultaneous sigh.

"I got to keep our centrifuge," Walter said hopefully.

"And I'm not on the rowing team," William agreed, "but we're poor. What'd he say he'd take us for, if we didn't give him the glue formula?"

"Ahum…" Walter considered, drumming his chin with his fingertips, "I believe it was 'all we were worth'. Something like that."

They were silently numb for a few minutes.

"Ah, who cares?" William said gruffly, "Making glue is for losers, really. Who needs it? Tape is way better."

"Yeah," Walter grinned, rubbing his eyes under his glasses, "losers."

They sighed again.

"We're sad, sad people, Belly."

xXx


	8. 8: Dashboard Confessional

Eight: _Dashboard Confessional_

"What about this one? Do you want to try here?"

"It's up to you, Peter."

Peter glared at his father, "No, it _isn't_. You've made it abundantly clear that it doesn't matter _what _I think."

Walter looked slightly taken aback, "I do value your opinion, son."

"You said that fifteen dealerships ago," Peter growled, glaring out the window, "Turn in here, Astrid, maybe there's one in here he'll like- the needle in the haystack…"

"The other cars didn't speak to me, Peter," Walter explained as Astrid obligingly turned in to the used car lot, "well, all but for that one the did, but a female voice of that kind in my ear is terribly distracting. But if I'm going to be rushing about in search of killers and creepys, I should be able to connect with my ride."

"You're insane," Peter muttered.

"I know," Walter replied.

Astrid shook her head as she shut off the car, and they climbed out, stretching and looking bored at yet another long lot of overpriced scrap heaps. At length, they were greeted by a suited man with a strained grin too wide for his face, "Hello! Welcome to-"

"Save it," Peter snapped, "just show us some cars."

"Did you have a specific model in mind?" The dealer asked as they strode down the aisle of bumpers, "Rugged? Practical? Sporty?"

Peter looked to Walter, "Walter?"

Walter's eyes were grey as they spanned the vast sea of glinting hoods and windshields, "I don't know."

Peter blew air through his cheeks in exhaustion, "Oh, boy."

"Practical and cheap," Astrid clarified, taking Walter by the elbow to lead him onward, as he was staring at a pink balloon affixed to the antenna of a Chrysler. He gave a cry as it suddenly popped.

"Nothing with balloons!" Walter cried, frightened.

"And thus begins the safari," Peter grumbled, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips as the dealer stared in confusion.

Every car was the same. They would find a respectable model, at a decent price, and Walter would take to inspecting it, sitting in every seat, his fingers touching every knob and feature. Most would pass his tests, and he would grow steadily more excited… until disaster struck.

He would turn on the radio.

Five seconds later, he would turn it off, and declare the car void.

At last, his patience spent, Peter trapped Walter in the driver's seat of a Taurus, hissing at him, "What the hell is wrong _now_, Walter?"

Walter shook his head sadly, "I don't know, son. I think- I guess it's just too soon, after the Cruiser."

"Walter, it was a _car_," Peter said flatly.

"It was that. It was _my_ car. I'm happy that you're alright, I really am… but I loved that car," Walter smiled with nostalgia, his eyes misting, "I bought it after you were born, you know. Because it was a family man car. Though admittedly, I slept in it a lot."

Peter heaved a sigh, "I'm sorry about the Cruiser, Walter. But we need wheels. We can't have Astrid chauffeuring us all the time, you know. And- the Cruiser was kind of ugly, you have to admit."

Walter smiled, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, "It was, wasn't it?"

Peter set his hand on his father's shoulder, "I'll tell you what. I'll get a rental for a while, and we can just keep our eyes open, okay?"

"Okay," Walter replied glumly.

"Hop out, let's get going." Peter stepped out of the way, allowing his father exodus.

"Peter," Walter said suddenly, grabbing his son's shirt front, "Wait."

"What's up?"

"The red head," Walter whispered, staring out the windshield, "look, look."

Peter looked in the same direction, confused, "Where?"

"She's a knockout. Don't draw attention, you'll scare her away!"

"Who?"

Walter scrambled out of the car, straitening his collar, "I think I'm in love, son!" He beamed. Peter and Astrid looked at each other in confusion as Walter stumbled off in the direction of his staring.

"Nineteen-sixty-five Oldsmobile Town-and-Country, S model," Walter murmured, awed in the wake of the cherry-red station wagon, "She's a classy gal…"

"Oh, no. Not another tuna boat…" Peter moaned, "No, Walter, get out of there-!" Peter protested, as his father was climbing inside.

"Judging by the dash type, I'd say she's an earlier model," Walter said, running his fingers over the glossy wood-panel dash console, "Before they switched out the oak paneling for that crappy pseudo-wood that they began to install later that year… and they've replaced the interior. It doesn't have the bench seat, but there are advantages to being able to reach the back seat in a hurry, hah hah…"

"Walter, please don't tell me you've got your heart set on this one," Peter pleaded, leaning in as Walter stooped to pull up the seat adjuster, pushing his seat back and stretching his legs comfortably, "It's- it's _so _ugly…"

"Belly said the same thing about the Cruiser," Walter said happily, readjusting the seat. He hesitated for a few moments, and reached for the radio, clicking it on.

White noise followed, and they waited breathlessly as Walter adjusted the knob.

_…Sun is shining in the sky, there ain't a cloud in sight,_

_ It's stopped rainin', Everybody's in the play _

_ And don't you know, it's a beautiful new day, hey…_

Walter looked up at his son, wearing a grin as bright as his eyes. Peter's heart sank, and he knew defeat- his father was smitten.

_…Mr. Blue Sky, please tell us why_

_ You had to hide away for so long- where did we go wrong?_

"It's out of our price range," Peter attempted weakly

"Take it out of my paycheck," Walter answered jokingly, stroking the dashboard and looking quite taken, _"Hey you, with the pretty face, welcome to the human race…" _he sang along airily.

Peter looked to Astrid, who only shrugged, "Is this the one, Walter?" she grinned.

"She wants me inside her," Walter answered seriously, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, and he began to murmur to the car, "I'll take you home and make you feel beautiful…"

Peter sighed, "So, no rental," he said glumly, "why does everything in my life have to be old and busted all to hell?!"

xXx

END.

_It's really short, I know, but it had to be written. I seriously loved the Bishop-mobile, and was slightly heartbroken when it got trashed. Forgive me, as I'm a bit of a car buff, and have a passionate love for ugly station wagons. ^ ^_

_The song on the radio is 'Mr. Blue Sky', by ELO._

_~F_


End file.
